Every 10 seconds, a celebrity child is given a stupid name. By the time you’ve finished reading this, 18 more celebrity children will have had a stupid name written on their birth certificate in gold glitter-pen and will be doomed to a life of ridicule and disaster. Today we focus on just one family, but there are hundreds of them out there.
Welcome to the world Harper Seven Beckham! Having scoured the internet in shock this morning for an explanation as to why another helpless infant has been given such a stupid name, I have made two alarming discoveries. First, Harper is actually considered to be one of America’s more normal names. Unsurprisingly, it means ‘a person who plays the harp, or who makes harps’. Well for goodness sakes David and Victoria! Give the poor little tyke a chance to catch her breath! It’s really difficult to play the harp! You have to have excellent dexterity and a musical gift that can’t necessarily be taught. There's a small chance she'll be able to do it, but probably not very well so you’ve basically just set her up for terrible fall. You might as well have called her Humpty Dumpty Beckham.
Nevertheless, it’s the ‘Seven’ part of this poor child’s name that I fear will really cause the damage. Quite simply, it has been chosen because ‘Seven’ is the number of David’s football shirt. Brilliant David. I think it’s clear that the Beckhams now plan the children around the tattoos rather than the other way around and with his career drawing to an end, David must be wanting to add a 7 onto himself somewhere as proof that it all happened. ‘I was the greatest! They called me Golden Balls! Look! Here’s my number see *cranes round desperately to show us his back*. There’s a nice space for a 'Seven' just underneath that ‘Cruz’ on his neck I’d say. Coincidence? Let’s just see what happens shall we? *Hears the sound of the tattoo needle firing up from here*
I don’t know if David has entirely thought things through though? When he finally hangs up his football boots forever and resigns to spending his days with the curtains drawn and avoiding Tom Cruise, little Seven will ride silently past the sitting room on her haunted, Edwardian rocking horse, like that little Marcy in A Beautiful Mind or those corridor twins in The Shining...‘She’s not real David. Don’t look at her. Come and have a little word with Tom, he’s got a nice bracelet for you to wear, it’s red, you like red’, ‘Nooooo Tom! Ahhhh! The number Seven! It haunts me!’ Spooky stuff.
Oh well, at least poor Seven’s not alone in this distressing situation. Not only has David inflicted on himself, a constant reminder of his lost talent , but Harper's big brothers have hardly got off lightly. There’s Brooklyn, sweetly named after the town in which he was conceived... 'Mom that is seriously gross’. I think that’s a story he’ll only be asking to hear once. Then there’s little Romeo, who’ll either be completely rubbish with girls or a super stud. Either way, his name will be a cross to bear. Which brings us neatly to Senor. Cruz Beckham. Si! The brother with a Spanish twist, because...he was born en Espana. They seem to be a very ‘say what you see’ bunch those Beckhams. It’s lucky no one’s been lumbered with ‘Chocolate Milk Beckham’, ‘Highway 101 Beckham’ or Mr Chips! Papa John’s Beckham? No. I’ll stop.
Only Victoria will escape unscathed from this catastrophe. She’ll be relaxing on her sun lounger, cocktail in one hand, the other adjusting her Chanel frames, while all around her, the consequences of her childrens’ names will play out like a surrealist horror. Harper Seven wrestles with a giant harp as her haunted, Edwardian rocking horse tips over and into the pool...without making a splash (ok, I’m even scaring myself now), meanwhile Romeo is chased off the school bus by gangs of jeering girls shouting 'You'll never get a girlfriend you loser!' Brooklyn sits at the dinner table with his iPod turned up full. He’s trying to blast the ‘how did I get my name?’ story out of his poor little head. Cruz will be rattling his castanets and whacking the hell of a party Pinata, ‘Ole!’ And David? Well he’ll be trembling behind the sofa of course. Fingers jammed in ears and eyes screwed shut, hoping that this time, maybe Tom won’t find him... ’98...99...100! Ready or not David, I’m coming!’
That’s a scary picture right there. Next time you sign your own name, spare a thought for families like this ok? It’s got to be pretty tough.
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